


Waltz

by Zai42



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Body Horror, Do Not Archive, Dream Logic, Dreams, Gangbang, Monsters, Multi, Other, Public Sex, The Unknowing, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-20 00:26:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17012022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zai42/pseuds/Zai42
Summary: Sometimes Abraham awakens from his nightmares before the show begins. Sometimes he is not so lucky.





	Waltz

**Author's Note:**

  * For [track_04](https://archiveofourown.org/users/track_04/gifts).



Abraham would go to his grave unsure of what he had seen. He had written it out, read it back to himself, and his own words seemed wrong in subtle ways he couldn't comprehend. He stared that them until his mind was so saturated with them he could recite his journal entry line for line by heart, but he still wasn't truly certain what he had nearly been a part of, that night.

  
The dreams held no such uncertainty. The dreams were crystal in their clarity, each facet glimmering in perfectly preserved understanding of one fact: The Turk had loved him.

  
Not _Wolfgang--_ Wolfgang had been many things, but Abraham had been nothing to him, a cog in a machine (all too literally) and nothing more. But his creation, that had loved him, had held him inside itself and relished each second of it, cradled him in its hollow heart and remembered him, at the end.

  
In his dreams, there is no soldier come to his rescue. He screams and screams and is _changed,_ warped into something confused and inhuman, and the Turk approaches him, holds out one stiff-fingered hand in an offer to dance. In his dreams, Abraham screams and sobs and accepts the hand anyway, is swept up into a waltz, cradled against the Turk's chest as if he were a blushing dance partner, and not whatever broken thing he has been sculpted into.

  
Neither the Turk nor Abraham have legs, in the dreams, yet they dance, wrapped up in each other has they had been when Abraham had pulled its levers and controlled its movements. The Turk pulls the levers now, manipulates the chaotic mass that had been Abraham's body into complicated dips and twirls, and Abraham can no more resist than any automaton, going through the motions as he is bade.

  
In the dreams he is laid down on the table that had been a part of the Turk, as if it is an altar. Usually he wakes then, sweating and panting and unable to fall back asleep while the night is still so dark and foreboding.

  
Sometimes he does not wake.

  
Sometimes the Turk lays him down on the altar that is also a part of it, presses an inhuman hand against him. Abraham is aware of their audience now; in the madness of their dance the eyes on them had been nothing but background noise, but now, in the eerie stillness as the Turk touches him, they are very, very present. They may be mechanical or organic, Abraham has no way of knowing and doubts it makes a difference; either way they are here to watch the show.

  
No bindings hold him down, no loops of leather keep him still against the altar, but he lies still and weeps in terror as the Turk touches him. It should be impersonal; the hands are cool and stiff, no yielding human skin to soften the caresses, but it feels like the most intimate thing in the world. As if whatever controls Abraham is being prodded and pulled at.

  
The Turk has nothing beneath the waist, so Abraham doesn't know what, exactly, penetrates him, and he isn't even entirely sure how or where he is being penetrated; only that he is suddenly, horrifically, full, something hard and implacable pressed up into him, his insides shifting to accommodate it. It moves, though the Turk does not, staying impossibly still and watching him with empty, glassy eyes. Abraham moves, writhes, twists on his altar and feels obscene. He has no body, or his body is not identifiable any longer; but he thinks he must look filthy, like this, stuffed full and undulating and squirming before a thousand thousand eyes, while the Turk remains unmoved and unmoving above him. Eventually Abraham whines, unable to keep quiet anymore as the thing inside him rearranges him, and the first tentative sound is like a dam breaking.

  
He thrashes, then, wild and moaning and mindless, his body a plaything for the monster before him. He sobs and begs and the Turk only watches him change, watches him buck against the unbearable pressure pulsing beneath his skin, watches him when he stiffens as something like an orgasm crashes over him and then _doesn't stop,_ leaving him overwhelmed and unable to recover.

  
Usually he will wake then, having made a mess of himself, aching and oversensitive with his own ejaculate cooling on his skin.

  
Even when he does not wake, he never remembers what comes next. Does not remember the frenzied debauchery that takes place on that altar, does not remember being filled with each and every mechanical audience member, all while the Turk watches him hungrily. Does not remember the way he stretches and distends into something tight and terrible to behold, a monster and a vessel for monsters, his body no longer his own but belonging, truly, the the Turk and its loyal audience.

  
He doesn't remember the blissful sense of completion that follows, the rapturous pride that swells in him as he is made to submit, again and again, until he has nothing left of himself to surrender.

  
He only remembers waking in terror, memories of the Turk fading as his mind comes back to itself.

* * *

 

He writes about the dreams in his journal, and the Archivist reads about them, but propriety if not pity keeps her from mentioning them when she records his statement. Some things, after all, should be kept secret.


End file.
